


Friends Who Are Girls

by Anonymous_ID



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Age Difference, Always Female Dean Winchester, Consensual Underage Sex, Cunnilingus, F/F, First Time, Older Woman/Younger Woman, Self-Discovery, Sexual Inexperience, Shaving, Vaginal Fingering, inconsequential m/f, unspecified teenage characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-16
Updated: 2018-06-30
Packaged: 2019-05-24 04:17:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14947427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anonymous_ID/pseuds/Anonymous_ID
Summary: written for an SPN kink meme prompt: Gender swap or female characters, author’s choice. A mature cougar type fucks a young girl with a strap on. Extra points if it’s big enough that the girl is a little intimidated. Extra extra bonus if the cougar is aggressive in her pursuit. Anywhere on the con scale.The girl is always-female Dean Winchester.  She and Jo Harvelle are unspecified-teenage, and the prompt appeared in the underage section of the kink meme prompts, so I have tagged it underage.  There is no explicit non-con.





	1. girls will be girls

When Dean gets her first period, her Daddy presents her with two boxes of store-brand pads and the news that she’ll be spending the summer at the Roadhouse with the Ellen and Jo Harvelle. 

“Time you had some girlfriends,” he says, gruffly.  “You know.  Friends who are girls.”

At first, Dean is annoyed—jeez, it’s only a little blood, not, like a chupacabra bite or anything—but after the first summer, she gets used to the idea.  For one thing, Jo is a million times more fun than nose-in-a-book Sammy.  She knows almost as much about hunting as Dean does, and she knows about some things Dean doesn’t know: bikinis, tampons, how to blink at some Roadhouse customer so he’ll let you have a sip of his beer. And Ellen is less like a mom than a cool older sister.  She likes edgy music and lets Dean borrow her car when she turns 16 and pays for that first bikini. When Dean decides it’s too hot for a bra, Ellen just raises her eyebrows, but says nothing.  In short, Ellen is awesome. 

Dean spends two full summers with Ellen and Jo, plus a week in March once when she gets kicked out of school and Daddy doesn’t know where else to send her. Eventually, the vacations get shorter.  Daddy realizes that, girl or not, Dean is essential on summer hunts.  Still, they usually make it over to the Roadhouse at least once a summer, and Dean always ends up sharing Jo’s room, just like they always have.  Ellen makes sure Dean has the bed, made up with nice matching sheets in some pretty pastel, freshly washed and dried in the sun.  “Dee’s our guest,” she tells Jo, who ends up bunking on a folding cot and seems happy to do it.  Dean loves everything about this tradition: the bed is the nicest place she’ll sleep all year and Jo is always flatteringly excited to have Dean visit—no other girls get to have sleepovers at the Roadhouse.  Secretly, she even loves having a nickname. “Dee” is not the new girl in class, the one with a sassy mouth and a boy’s haircut, the one who looks like a refugee from the Goodwill clothing bin.  “Dee” is the flirty cosmopolitan cousin who blows into town from somewhere more exciting than this.  She’s the one whose bathing suit is a little too tight, shorts a little too short (no one has to know its because choices are limited at Goodwill).  She’s the one who can say and do outrageous things because her only parent is four states away.   The week at the Roadhouse has always been the best part of Dean's summer and, even though she and Jo are older now, it's still gonna be great.

Jo’s grown in the past year.  And how.  She’s almost Dean’s height, and when she bounces down the Roadhouse steps to throw her arms around Dean, it’s obvious she’s grown in other places.  Dean can see the strings from her bikini under her t-shirt. “Got my learner’s permit!  Let's go! Mom says we can go to the lake if we’re back by dark.” 

Daddy overhears.  “Remember, you’re here to be a help to Ellen, Dean, not go off gallivanting…”

“Yes, Dad,” Dean and Jo chorus, because they know that makes him crazy.

“Oh, let them be, John,” Ellen says indulgently from the porch.  “Girls will be girls… Just don’t stay out too long: it’s gonna rain this afternoon.”

And Jo glances up at the cloudlessly blue prairie sky and gives Dean a look that says _parents, right?_ as clearly as if she’s formed with words with her mouth.  Dean feels like she’s arrived home at last: Jo and Sammy are the only people in the word who can communicate wordlessly with her like that.

***

Jo’s ‘lake’ is more like a glorified fishing hole, an old mining quarry that fills up with frigid snowmelt and is only swimmable in the depths of summer.  It's a hangout for all the country kids who can't afford a membership to the public pool in town.  It is also pretty much Jo’s favorite place on the planet.  She once told Dean, in the quiet of their shared room, that it doesn’t even feel like summer until the two of them have squirmed out of their cutoffs and jumped off the makeshift pier.  This year, Jo is splashing in before Dean has even gotten her boots off.

“C’mon in!” Jo calls.  “Water’s great!” 

 _Jo_ looks great:  already a little tanned, hair wet and dark gold, filling out her bikini in a way that Dean is noticing this summer.  The water is cold enough that her nipples are puckered, visible under her suit even from the shore.  She’d always been bustier than Dean, though you don’t notice so much under her flannel shirts and Harvelle’s Roadhouse staff t-shirts.  Don’t notice unless you’re looking, that is, and Dean is suddenly, definitely looking. 

“You rushed me over here so fast I never even unpacked my suit,” Dean calls back, shuffling her feet in the gritty shale that serves as a beach. 

Jo rolls her eyes.  “Come _on._ There’s no one here.”  She shoots Dean a look that is pure challenge. “I won’t tell.”

Dean hesitates, but only for a second.  Then she pops the button on her jeans and starts to peel them off. 

Jo whoops and kicks into a lazy backstroke.  “I have missed you, Dean Winchester!”  she shouts up to the wide Nebraska sky.

The makeshift pier is splintery and half-rotten, so the best way into the lake is just to take a running leap.  That’s what Dean does, in her panties and a tank top, leaving her jeans and her bra next to her boots on the shore. The sudden, enveloping shock of the cold water is like a jolt of frozen electricity. She surfaces, spitting and sputtering.

“Jesus, Jo!  It’s _freezing_!”

Jo swims over, her front crawl sleek and efficient because Ellen had insisted on lessons years ago, when Jo's dad was alive and they could afford the pool membership.  (“You can’t be too sure,” Ellen always says, even in land-locked Nebraska).  She slips her arms around Dean’s waist, tries to fling her even deeper.

“No!” Dean shrieks, splashing, clinging.

 Their legs tangle in the water and Jo can’t get any leverage and then she starts laughing. Dean can feel her friend’s whole body shaking with giggles.  She tips back, sags into Jo’s arms and lets herself float, confident that Jo will hold her.  Summertime.

They paddle and splash for another half hour or so, but it turns out Ellen was right: big, grey clouds start rolling in, massing in the east.  The sun dims quickly and, when it does, the lake gets surprisingly cold.  In the pre-storm light, Jo’s lips are starting to look a little purple-blue.  Even with the whole quarry to swim in, they are somehow never much farther than arm’s reach away from each other and when Jo finally hauls herself out of the water and scurries to the car to grab a towel, Dean feels unaccountably lonely.  Still, she paddles her way slowly toward the dock, doesn’t want the afternoon to be over. She’s picking her way across the sharp shale of the beach when a gust of stormy air reminds her that her already skimpy summer clothes are wet to the point of transparent.   She looks up from her feet to see Jo staring at her, frozen with her hands still toweling her hair.

Fuck.  Well, it’s only Jo.  There’s nothing to do but brazen it out, strolling across the beach like she’s not aware of how her nipples must look in the wringing wet tank top, like Jo can’t see her hair through her panties.  It’s not like Dean hasn’t been stared at enough (new girl, I heard she moved into that old trailer by the Simmons place…heard her mama ran off…heard her daddy’s a drunk…I heard, I heard).  But Jo’s gaze isn’t judgmental.  Not at all.  Dean can’t quite figure out what that strange, open expression means.  So when she’s two feet away and it’s clear Jo isn’t moving, Dean demands, “What’re you looking at?”

Dean knows how she sounds: surly and daring.  Expects Jo to back down. So when Jo flings the towel she’s holding around Dean’s shoulders and tugs it pulls her off balance completely.  Suddenly Dean’s hand is on Jo’s bare hip, just below her bikini, and Jo’s lake-cold lips are on hers. 

“Lookin' at you,” Jo says., and kisses Dean again.

They end up in the back seat, like every After School Special stereotype, except Dean’s pretty sure those specials don’t include two _girls_ making out. But Jo is straddling her with those long, tan legs, sucking kisses under her jaw, and Dean is not going to complain: she just wants _more._  She’s so into it—Jo’s hot mouth; her darting tongue; the weight of her thick, wet hair between Dean’s fingers—that she doesn’t realize how quickly the storm is gaining on them. She jumps when thunder cracks the sky above them.  Jo actually shrieks, so surprised that she nearly slides off Dean’s lap.  The rain comes the way it usually does on the plains: heavy and all at once, pounding onto the roof of the Jeep, immediately reducing all visibility. 

“Guess your mom was right about the storm,” Dean says, hearing how ragged and breathless she sounds over the drumming rain.  “How’d she know?”

Jo shrugs.  “Oh, my mom knows everything.” She trying to sound casual, too, but it doesn’t really work. 

Dean studies her friend in the grey rainy light: Jo’s posture is ballet-perfect (“Don’t slouch,” Ellen is always telling them both.  “You’re too tall to slouch.”), but her legs are still tangled with Dean’s.  The halter bow of her bikini top is twisted over her shoulder.  Her wet hair is tangled.  She looks gorgeous. Dean is so addled she wonders for a second how Jo had kept her lipstick on with all the lake water…before she realizes there is no lipstick: Jo’s mouth is plump and pink from kissing.   From kissing _Dean_. Behind Jo, out the side window, the dense curtain of rain has rendered the lake invisible.  No one will be coming out to swim in this weather, and even if they did, they’d probably drive right by Ellen’s old Jeep without even seeing it. 

They are invisible. It’s not too late: they can both pretend this was a stupid, girly experiment.  Like the time they’d dyed their hair and turned Ellen’s sink green, or the half-dozen unsuccessful spells and home remedies they’ve tried to make Dean’s bitten fingernails grow faster. 

That is totally what Dean is planning to do. Ignore and move on.

Except that Jo reaches up and with one quick tug, the knot on her bikini unravels, leaving her bare-breasted, her round tits pale as milk, untouched even by the sun. 

“Dee?”

“Uhm?” is all Dean can muster. It takes physical effort for her to look up from Jo’s pink nipples.  To see her friend biting her lip, blinking eyelashes still spiky with lakewater.

 “Touch me?  Please?”

 _Please,_ Jo says, so prettily. Ellen couldn’t give a good goddamn about most rules of propriety, but she has always been a stickler for manners.  What can Dean do except lean forward, closing the few inches between them, and take one of those tender pink nipples into her mouth?

***

Jo comes rocking against Dean’s thigh, panting into Dean’s ear, cute little moans barely audible under the rain.  She goes all uncoordinated, after.  They end up wedged into the corner of the Jeep’s back seat,  Jo curled against Dean.  Dean’s barely caught her breath when she feels Jo fingerwalking up her thigh, over her belly.  Slowly, Jo peels up Dean’s tank top, teases along her belly button, slips a finger under the elastic of her underwear.  She pauses, giving Dean a chance to object, but Dean finds her legs have fallen open, and she can’t think why she should contradict that wordless invitation.

“Aaahh,” someone breathes when Jo’s fingers finally slip along Dean’s pussy, and Dean couldn’t say whether the sigh comes out of her mouth or Jo’s, because Jo knows just how to touch her, long fingers going unerringly to a particular fold, fingertip on her clit, another tickling gently below.

Dean can feel her on-coming orgasm just as surely as she had felt the summer thunderstorm.  It twinkles up her legs, coursing down from where Jo’s breath is tickling her collarbone, and when those feelings meet, somewhere near Jo’s fingers, she explodes.  Her hips come up off Ellen’s upholstery, pumping sudden and powerful.  Dean feels like she’s been possessed by the lightning that still flashes through the Jeep.

“Dee…Dean!”  And then again.  “Dee?”

“Mmm?” God, Dean feels good.  Warm and languorous, almost dizzy...

“Dee?” Jo is almost hesitant.

Dean opens her eyes. “Yeah?”

“I’m.”  Jo blinks. “I’m inside you.”

And she is.  Dean is so wet—slick, sweat, lake water— she hadn’t even really felt Jo’s finger slip into her pussy when her hips had jumped.  But now she can feel herself throbbing around Jo's index finger  In the afterglow, it takes her a moment to comprehend: in the moment of climax, she had literally fucked herself onto Jo’s hand.  She looks down stupidly: her thighs, sprawled wide and wanton, and Jo crouched between them, her hand tucked into the crotch of Dean’s Laundromat-faded panties.

“Do you want me t—oh!”  Jo breaks off.  “I can feel…you got.  Tighter.”  She gasps for air, so aroused. “Should I…?”

“Can you.  Uhm,  a li’l more?”  Dean says, and she's too turned on to be ashamed. Her voice is low and throaty as the thunder.  She’s blushing and hot and the air in the Jeep is rainforest-damp and smells like Jo’s shampoo.  She sees the faded flowers on her panties shift as Jo moves her hand, feels the penetration. 

Dean had always heard it would hurt.  The sort of clinics Dad could afford for her and Sam tended to emphasize abstinence and fear tactics.  But the idea of having Jo _inside_ her is thrilling.  And then Jo slips out and Dean actually groans at the loss.

“I wanna,”  Jo says.  And before she can even finish, Dean is nodding, shifting, letting Jo pull off her sodden panties, prop her foot on the back of the passenger’s seat as Jo slithers into the space between the seats.  Dean can feel Jo’s rapid breaths on her thigh and she clenches suddenly, but Jo whispers her through it—“that’s right, let me in. Jesus, you’re wet. c’mon sweet girl…open up for me.”

“Another,” is all Dean can manage when she’s got Jo’s finger all the way in again.  And Jo eases in a second long, slim finger and then she curls them an Dean is gone, gone, gone.

***

“You girls were gone a long time,” Ellen remarks when they finally make it back to the Roadhouse.  Surprisingly, it’s Jo who blushes guiltily.  Dean just smiles.  “We didn’t think it was safe to drive in all that rain,” she says piously.  And is only a little unnerved when Ellen gives them her patented _oh, really_? look.  Yes, they’re rain spattered and wild-haired, totally disheveled.  But that could just be from an afternoon horsing around at the lake. True, Jo’s going bare under her t-shirt because her bikini top got stuffed somewhere in the Jeep and Dean’s still tingling between her legs.  But there’s no way Ellen could know just from looking at them.  Is there?

That night, it’s Jo’s turn.  They wait until things are in full swing at the Roadhouse.  All the way up in Jo’s attic bedroom, they can barely hear the honky-tonk, but Dean opens the windows so the parking lot lights illuminate Jo as she slithers out of her shortie summer pajamas.  She’s got her hair braided for the night, which makes her look ridiculously young and fragile, and she hesitates for a moment until Dean takes her by the hand and leads her over to the camp bed like a bride.  They’ve piled all the pillows and blankets from Jo’s real bed, creating a nest where Jo perches, sweet and trusting.  She comes as soon as Dean touches her pussy, quivering and gasping as Dean suckles one little tit. Jo gets wetter than Dean, her thighs gleaming with it, but she’s tighter.  It takes ages for her to manage even one of Dean’s fingers.  It’s worth it, though, when Dean licks her and feels the rhythmic pulsing of her orgasm.  Jo falls asleep not long afterward, Dean curled around her, cupping one of Jo's breasts in each hand.  They barely manage to get themselves covered and into the proper beds the next morning before Ellen comes bustling in with a load of laundry.

They have a hot, sultry summer week before Dad and Sam return.  Dean spends one whole afternoon, three hours at least, eating Jo into multiple orgasms.  Jo steals a nubby little vibrator from Ellen’s bedside table on Thursday because the Roadhouse is open late that night and her mom will never miss it.  Dean gets the whole thing inside of her, but Jo can only take it against her clit.  They do fall asleep in the same bed that night, but at least they’re fully dressed when Ellen comes to wake them.  “You girls are sleeping so late these days,” she muses.  “I remember when you’d both be up at the crack of dawn.  Now I’ve got to come roust you out or you’d sleep all day.” This time she definitely looks at Dean.

The last night, after Dad’s called ahead to say he’ll be at the Roadhouse bright and early, Dean wakes up with Jo’s head between her thighs. She stretches, letting Jo lick deeper, and fuzzily tries to figure out the time.  The warm night is silent, just the wind in the corn that grows in the fields across the highway from the Roadhouse.  It must be three or four in the morning.  She bites a nearby pillow to stop her groaning: earlier she’d taken three of Jo’s fingers, more than ever before. She feels delightfully…not sore, exactly, but used.  She wants Jo inside her again, but before she can say anything, Jo pulls back.

“C’mon,” she whispers, and hands Dean a pair of running shorts to pull on under her t-shirt.  Quietly, hushing each other, they creep down the attic stairs to the bathroom.  Ellen and Jo live above the Roadhouse, but the kitchen and the large living room separate Ellen’s bedroom on one side from the bathroom on the other, so once Jo closes them into the bathroom, there’s little chance they’ll be overheard.  Still, Dean stifles her nervous giggles against Jo’s shoulder.  She’s never had a secret before—not really.  She’s lied, of course.  Constantly: to cashiers, cops, teachers, classmates.  Lied about everything from why she didn't finish her homework to what happens after people die.  But never to people who matter. Try keeping a secret when you spend 16 hours a day in a car with your father, when you share a motel room with your little brother for weeks on end.  Dad, Sam, Ellen, Bobby…there are a few people who probably know every thought in her head.  Well—Dean feels the bathroom tiles under her knees, tastes the vinegar sweet of Jo’s cunt—not _every_ thought.  Not anymore. 

Jo comes quick and beautiful, right there on Dean’s tongue, pressed up against the towel bar. 

“S’not what I brought you here for,” she pants, trying to sound annoyed.

Dean quirks one eyebrow.  “It’s not?  You seemed to enjoy it….”

“I always enjoy you,” Jo teases right back, and then she reaches behind Dean and pulls a plastic bag off a hook on the bathroom door.   Inside is a can of shaving cream and a pack of new razors.  Jo waggles the razors suggestively. 

“Whaddaya think?”

“Yes,” Dean says, instantly.   Jo shaves her pubic hair, which is not something Dean had even thought of until this past week.  But suddenly, it seems like a good idea to lay back on a towel on the floor and let Jo work on her with warm water and gentle fingers.  To finish it off, Jo fucks her with the handle of one of the razors—not much thicker than her finger, but longer.  It’s a revelation: Jo likes touch as much as penetration, loves Dean's petting fingers, craves her mouth.  But Dean thinks she will always want something in her, ever since that day at the lake, and the deeper the better. There’s a moment right before her orgasm when Dean has to grab Jo’s hand—“no, stop.  Stop!”—because she honestly thinks she’s going to pass out. 

Jo rinses the razor, folds the towel, shoves Dean's running shorts into the hamper.  Dean doesn't help with the clean-up, mostly because her extremities are still tingling.  She’s slow following Jo through the apartment, up the attic stairs.  So slow that Jo is already out of sight, up in her bedroom, when Ellen speaks.

“Dee?”

Dean turns, too pleasure-hazed to be surprised, and see’s Jo’s mother standing in her bedroom door.  Those highway lights shine through Ellen's bedroom, too, and Dean can see Ellen's body like a shadow through her summer nightdress.  Dean is suddenly, keenly aware of the fact that, under the oversized t-shirt she wears to bed, she is bare as the day she was born. 

“I…forgot to brush my teeth,”  Dean says.  But she can tell Ellen knows she’s lying.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the tags? have you read them?

“My mom knows everything,” Jo had joked, that first day at the lake, and Dean begins to suspect it is true.  Maybe it’s just her conscience, which doesn’t feel as guilty as it should.  Or maybe it’s the way Ellen pats her shoulder at breakfast the next morning, a lingering, almost massage-like touch, even though Sam is sitting right across the breakfast table, hoovering up waffles like Eggo is going bankrupt.  A goodbye kiss on her cheek that catches the corner of her mouth right before she gets into the Impala.  It should make Dean worried, or ashamed.  Instead, it makes her hot.  When Dad stops for lunch at a truckstop in Indiana, Dean fingers herself in the bathroom and she’s not thinking of Jo.  She’s thinking of how Jo’s bedroom is right above her mother’s, wondering what Ellen could have heard through the open windows on those long summer nights after the Roadhouse had closed.

Jo happens to be at Bobby’s when Dad drives through at the very end of the summer, but the junkyard’s so small that all the kids end up on the living room floor in sleeping bags.  Jo and Dean barely manage some furtive kisses after Sammy’s nodded off. 

“I think your mom knows,” Dean whispers. “About us.”

But Jo just smiles and kisses the tip of her nose.  “Don’t be silly.  She’s got no idea.”

After that, Jo goes back to Nebraska for the start of the school year and Dean goes with Dad and Sammy to Ohio. She misses Jo something fierce, worse than usual. There’s a neighbor in their trailer park outside Dayton who has long, thick hair the same corn-gold color as Jo’s.  A boy named Christopher sweet-talks the wrestling coach who is monitoring detention into dismissing them early and Dean lets him kiss her under the bleachers in the empty gym. He humps against her, wants to go further, and Dean’s so horny she considers it.  But then the bell rings and the next week Dad comes home and says they’re moving to Wisconsin. 

So the first time Dean fucks a boy, she's in Milwaukee. The boy in question is a shy, sweet guy who shares her lab bench in chemistry class. They do it in the backseat of the Impala on a service road halfway between the high school and the library where Dean is supposed to pick Sam up after school.  Dean’s pretty sure she’s his first, too, because he lets her do whatever she wants.  She doesn’t come, but he does, so it’s a good thing Dean had shoplifted condoms from a gas station.

Chemistry boy—Dean kind of thinks his name is Rob?—gives her some confidence.  She sets her sights on Steve, a senior on the football team who she manages to run into accidentally-on-purpose outside the weight room one October afternoon.  She’s had a lot of experience sizing up opponents and she’s pleased to find that her hunch is correct: Steve’s sporting a solid seven inches.  Plus round, low-hanging balls, which Dean hadn’t expected, but immediately loves.  They never _date_ , exactly, but they fuck for about six weeks.  He feels good inside her and Dean likes how excited he is by her muscles and her small, almost boyish tits.  Still, sometimes when the frenzy is over and she’s sprawled on the Impala’s leather with Steve trembling between her thighs, Dean feels homesick for Jo.  Dean picks Steve mostly because she thinks he’ll fill her up and because he doesn’t seem like the type to brag about screwing her.  If he does, she’ll never know about it: Dad hears about a haunting in Fort Collins in December, so they leave Milwaukee before the end of winter break.

They're halfway to Wyoming when they hit a freak snowstorm that is so bad Daddy actually agrees to divert to the Roadhouse. Fuck, Dean is _dripping_ by the time they arrive—only to find that Jo is snowed in two towns over with her grandparents.  Bill Harvelle’s parents have never liked Ellen, but she’s bent over backwards for years so Jo will have some relationship with them.  That doesn’t make Dean feel any better, though, when she leaves the dinner table and goes up to Jo’s bedroom alone.

The room looks empty; Dean’s only been there when it had to hold a camp cot and two girls’ worth of stuff.  She riffles through Jo’s drawer and finds a set of flannel pajamas.  Dean’s four inches taller than Jo, so the pants are too short.  Perfect.  Just dandy.  What else should she expect from this day?  Dean stuffs them back into the drawer, pulls on the pajama top, and crawls into Jo’s bed.

The pillow smells like Jo’s shampoo.  Ellen had handed her a stack of sheets and a towel on her way upstairs after dinner.  “I would’ve changed the sheets if I’d known you were coming,” she’d said.  “But I’m sure Jo would want you to make yourself at home.  She’ll be so upset that she missed you.”   Dean slips her hand into her panties.  She doesn’t want Jo to be upset.  She wants Jo to be _here_. 

She’s touching herself, starting to feel good despite the empty room, when she hears the creak of the stairs. 

“Yes?” Dean calls.  If it’s Sammy, she’s going to kill him.  Find some pants, and then kill him, the nosy brat.

It’s not Sammy.

“Hey, Dee,”  Ellen whispers.  “Your Dad and Sam are out like lights; just wanted to see how you were doing.”

“M’ok,”  Dean freezes, wondering if she can slip her hand out from her panties or if that will be obvious under the blanket.

Ellen seats herself on the edge of Dean’s mattress.  “We can give Jo a call tomorrow.  They go more snow up at the farm than we did down here.  I’m trying to convince your Daddy to stay another day or so, but you know how he is.”

Dean snorts.  She does know, she just doesn’t have anybody to complain to.  Only Ellen knows what it’s like to try and keep house for a hunter. 

“She misses you, you know.  Jo.”  Ellen pats Dean’s shoulder.

“Miss her, too,”  mumbles Dean.  And just when she thinks she’s going to get away with it—that Ellen will kiss her forehead and wish her good night and go back downstairs—Jo’s mom slides her hand down along Dean’s arm, under the blanket, down to where she’s got a finger slick deep in her cunt.

“Oh, honey,”  Ellen says, sweetly reproving, like Dean got caught in the rain and tracked mud on the floor, “you’re all wet!”

***

“Has it only been Jo?”  Ellen asks gently, replacing Dean’s finger with her own.  “Oh, don’t look so surprised.  You girls aren’t as sneaky as you think.”

Dean can’t figure out what to say.  Could she be dreaming? Does Ellen really expect an answer? “Uhm, mostly Jo?”   

“Tell me,” Ellen says, and Dean surprises herself by doing just that.  Tells about Christopher feeling her up, about taking Rob into her mouth, about Steve’s body on hers. About how Steve started to thicken whenever she took her shirt off, how she didn’t even have to touch him.

“Not surprised, Dean. You’re very pretty.”

Dean opens her mouth to protest, but Ellen shifts her fingers and Dean’s mouth is left hanging open while her hips writhe.

Ellen simply kisses her.

This is Jo’s _mother._ She’s known Dean _forever_.  And yet, Dean can’t keep herself from adding, boasting, obvious: “He likes my tits.”

“Well, they are nice,” Ellen agrees, as casually as though Dean were talking about a new rifle.  “These boys,”  Ellen asks. “You like ‘em?”

Dean nods quickly, because it’s true and because Ellen sounds like she’ll find the boys and dismantle them if Dean even hesitates. “I mean, they’re not _Jo_.”  She blushes, remembering who she’s talking to, but then Ellen scissors her fingers and Dean’s pelvis rises off the bed like she’s got no control over it.

“Sorry!” Dean squeaks.

“Mmm,” Ellen kisses her forehead again. “Don’t apologize, Dee.  Don’t ever.”  And then she shifts, still keeping her hand on Dean’s pussy, but easing herself down so they are lying next to each other, face to face in Jo’s narrow bed.  “’Sides, I like making you feel good.  You do, don’t you?  Feel good?”

Dean’s got two fingers all the way inside her, and Ellen’s thumb brushing her mons—not actually touching her clit, just reminding her that it’s there.  It’s been nearly two weeks since the last time with Steve, and Ellen’s touch is better than his ever was.  _Good_ doesn’t even begin to describe it.

“Yeah,” Dean breathes.   “Sometimes I just get so…”  she can’t even find the words.  “I just really want.  Uhm.”

“Shh, baby.  I know.” Ellen brushes her hair back from her face, as gentle as the time Dean had strep and a really high fever and Daddy dropped her at the Roadhouse because he couldn't be saddled with a sick kid on a hunt. But this time is different, because this time when Ellen kisses her, it's a proper kiss.  On the mouth.

If Dean had ever thought about it—which she hadn’t, not really, maybe just once or twice after she’d confessed her suspicions at Bobby’s.  If she’d ever thought about it, she’d have imagined Ellen would kiss like Jo:  gentle, sweet, a little shy ‘til she gets warmed up.  But Ellen kisses like she’ll take no prisoners, licking into Dean’s mouth fluttering her fingers so Dean gasps, and then tonguing her deeper. 

It is, Dean realizes, exactly how she’s always wanted to be kissed.  It’s why she kept seeking out older, bigger.  It’s why her favorite part with Steve is afterwards, when she’s crushed under him and he forgets to be chivalrous.  It’s why she finds herself opening—her mouth, her legs—until she’s got her knees hitched around Ellen’s hips and she’s cumming, bucking and squirming and pulsing around Ellen’s seeking fingers.

Ellen holds her, after.  Opens her own pajama shirt and lets Dean nuzzle against her bare breasts like a newborn.  Kisses her slow and deep.  Pulls away at last and says, “I’m going to taste you,” so decisive that Dean can only nod. 

Dean’s kept herself bare, ever since Jo had first shaved her: a reminder, a memento.  She doesn’t know what the boys think of it, doesn’t care.  But she knows what Ellen thinks because of the way her breath hitches when she finally kisses her way down Dean’s belly and between her thighs.

A long minute of warm breath on her cuntlips, and then Ellen’s hands curve up under Dean’s ass, lock onto her hips.  Ellen’s got big hands, for a woman: strong and capable and good with delicate things, like bar glassware and finicky rifles.  Dean is so blissed she can barely lift her head, but she does when Ellen growls her name.

“Dee?”

Dean looks down her body: puffy little tits with bullet-shaped nipples, flat belly, legs spraddled and, between them: Ellen, her hair tousled, her own big dark nipples stiff with arousal.

“Dee? I’m gonna make you cum again,”—Dean is shaking her head, no way,  not again, she can’t…but Ellen overrides her, “I am, sweet girl, and when I do, you gotta remember: your Daddy is just downstairs.”

Dean does remember, the first time.  She turns her face into the pillow and whimpers.  But the next time?  When Ellen slips her fingers back inside (two? three?) and curves them up?  When she’s got her palm on Dean’s stomach, holding her pussy open so she can lick Dean’s clit?  Well, that time, Dean comes silently, barely able to breathe, feeling the orgasm filling her low belly like a flood behind a dam. 

***

The next morning, at breakfast, Dean is so groggy and satisfied, she doesn’t even hear her Daddy speak to her.

She only looks up from her cereal when Sammy jostles her arm, “Listen up, jerk.”

She’s too content to even respond, just looks up at Daddy. “Yes, sir?”

“I’ve gotta hit the road, snow or not.  But Ellen says you and Sammy can stay here if you want.”

Dean looks over at Ellen, sipping her coffee by the sink.  She knows what this offer really means.

“Yeah.  Spoke with Bill’s parents—they wanna keep Jo with them ‘til the access road gets plowed by the county," Ellen keeps her eyes on Dean's.  “So you can have her bed for a night or two.”


	3. Chapter 3

Ash stops by just as they are finishing breakfast.  During the long Midwestern summers, he practically lives at the Roadhouse, but the rest of the year, he works up at the local land-grant college and seems to spend all his time in their computer labs.  He has a knack for showing up when  Ellen’s made pancakes, though, and soon his true motive becomes apparent: he’s rigged up some sort of robotic snowshovel he wants to try out on her back 40. 

“Knock yourself out,” Ellen says.  “Can’t set any fires in this weather.”

“That was _one_ time!”  Ash looks offended.  “And it was only a prototype.”

“Like I said,” Ellen shrugs, “knock yourself out. And…”

“And?”

“Take Sam with you.”

Ash agrees immediately, both because he loves an audience and because he’s got to stay on Ellen’s good side.  Sam, the little geek, looks thrilled at the promise of spending the morning handing wrenches to Ash in the icy cold pasture.  So 15 minutes after Dad drives off in the Impala, Ash, Sam, and a thermos of hot chocolate head out over the snowy yard, and Dean and Ellen are left alone.

Dean washes the dishes, looking out the window until even the pompom on Sam’s borrowed winter hat disappears.  She hears Ellen clearing the table, putting away cereal and pancake ingredients.  And then Ellen is behind her.  She presses aligns her body behind Dean, interlocks her fingers with Dean’s in the soapy water, kisses her neck.

“I’m only going to ask you once,” Ellen whispers, her voice throaty, “and I’m in charge, so if you say yes—”

“Yes,” interrupts Dean.  “I want...  Yes.” She’d lain awake last night, barely able to feel her toes, after Ellen had left for her own bed.  She’d felt relaxed for the first time in ages, felt even better than she did with Jo.  With Jo, Dean had always still been _in charge_ : still the oldest, still ‘look-after-your-brother-Dean,’ still ‘you-should-know-better-Dean.’ After that very first time at the lake, Dean had always been the one to initiate, though Jo was quick to agree.  Jo is shy about going inside, even though Dean loves it, so there’s always an awkward moment when Dean ends up reassuring her that, yes, it is okay, yes, Jo, _please_. Begging does not come naturally to Dean Winchester. Even with the boys, Dean had felt like she was doing all the work: seduction, persuasion, permission, encouragement.  

But now it’s Ellen guiding the kisses, Ellen turning her, lifting Dean’s flannel shirt and peeling down Dean’s ragged jeans.  Dean gasps when the cold porcelain of the old farmhouse sink touches the small of her back, but the air comes out as a moan because suddenly Ellen’s on her knees, gently opening Dean’s cunt with her tongue.

Dean had lulled herself to sleep the night before imagining a day of teasing glances and anticipation before making some excuse to end up in Ellen’s bed at night.  But it’s not even 9:30 in the morning when she orgasms in the middle of Ellen’s kitchen, Sammy’s breakfast dishes still on the table.  

Ellen breakfasts on Dean, eating her out until her legs are shaking, then gently picking up each foot to free her from the tangle of jeans and underwear and boot socks that have puddled at her ankles.  Ellen eases her way up Dean’s body: a kiss on her thigh, on her stomach.  Dean can _taste herself_ when Ellen finally kisses her mouth.   Ellen is pressing Dean into the sink with her hips and Dean almost comes again just at the thought that Jo had come from those hips.  Sweet, blonde Jo, who insists that Ellen has no idea, who can barely take two of Dean’s fingers, whose once came just from Dean sucking her nipples. 

There’s a shock of cooler air when Ellen steps away, leaving Dean standing at the sink in just her flannel shirt.

“Upstairs,” Ellen says, nodding toward the stairs, and swats Dean’s bare ass when she passes.

Jo’s room is above the living area, which is above the Roadhouse, which is basically a glorified barn, so Jo's bedroom is like a nest or a treehouse.  There are no other buildings to block the soft, grey light of the winter morning.  It is snowing again, Dean registers, but the hot air rises, so she has no compunction about shedding her shirt.  She hadn’t bothered with a bra that morning.  She hears the creak of footsteps on the stairs and clambers quickly into the bed that still smells faintly like Jo’s apple shampoo. She burrows into the blankets, squinching her eyes shut, as she hears Ellen mounting the stairs.  The anticipation is electric: for the first time, someone else is in charge of Dean’s pleasure.  Dean doesn’t know what is going to happen, only that she is going to enjoy it. 

Finally, Dean peeks. 

Ellen is standing at the top of the stairs.  She’s wearing nothing but her own flannel shirt, open over bounteous breasts, and she’s got a cock strapped to her hips.

Ellen’s cock is not natural.  Well—obviously.  But it’s not even human.  The manufacturers didn’t even _try_.  It’s a deep, midnight purple, for one thing.  And for another thing, it’s huge.  Inches longer than Steve…and thick, ridged with veins that Dean can see from the bed.  The head is the size of a small plum; the base swells into a knot.  It should look ridiculous, but Ellen moves like it is part of her, like she means to do some damage.   She walks to the bed, hips swaying, cock bobbing. 

“It’s not gonna…” Dean is a little surprised at how disappointed she feels.

Ellen smiles, wolfish.  “Oh, it’ll fit, sweetheart.”

“It’s too big.”

“I’ll go slow.”

Dean reaches out, traces one of the thick leather straps crossing Ellen’s hips.  Ellen twitches; the cock jumps.  Jo had been the one to sneak the tiny vibrator from her mother’s room (“She’s got a box of stuff,” Jo had reported.  “I know just where it is, and she won’t be back ‘til after closing time.”).  Had she seen this big, purple behemoth?  Dean can’t even circle the base with her fingers, but they come away sticky and slick when she tries.   Her mouth suddenly fills with spit.

“Can I…?” she starts, and then she gives in to the strange desire to have that big, round cockhead in her mouth.

The suckling soothes Dean, puts her back in control, and she traces the long line of the dildo back to Ellen’s pussy.  The cock has a big knob on the back, so that Ellen gets fucked even as she’s fucking. Dean wedges a finger in where the knob curves and hears Ellen growl. Ellen’s hips are pulsing, just a little, enough so Dean can feel it in her mouth. Ellen cups Dean’s head in her big hand and Dean opens her eyes. She looks up, up the length of Ellen’s cock, up toward her broad shoulders, her breasts heavy and big-nippled, the way Jo’s will be in a few years.

Jo.  Dean should be disgusted with the idea that Jo fed from those breasts, that she came from Ellen’s wide hips, her warm cunt. But she isn’t. She leans in until she can’t take anymore, until the cock is nearly in her throat, until Ellen’s hand tightens in her hair, pulling her off before she hurts herself.  Ellen is always looking out for Dean.

Dean pulls away, mind made up.  “How?” she asks, wiping a smear of lube from her cheek.

She half expects to need to persuade Ellen, the way she had Rob and, later, Steve, but Jo’s mother trusts her to know her own mind.  

“Get on your knees,” is all she says.

That’s…hot.  Dean’s never done it like this before, and it feels so slutty: everything’s visible like this, hands and knees sinking into Jo’s bedding, aware of how wet she is, her thighs slick. Ellen adjusting her, spreading her wider, laying a palm on the small of her back.  And then the weird touch of the dildo, sticky with lube and surprisingly warm from her mouth.

Dean loves the moment of penetration:  Jo’s tongue, Rob’s cock, Steve’s fingers, it doesn’t matter, she just adores having something fill her. And Ellen is good, knows to stop for a moment after Dean’s taken the head of her dick, let's her adjust to the size.  It’s big.  Bigger than it had felt in her mouth.  Bigger than anything Dean has ever had. And when Ellen starts moving, it feels bigger still.  Two little pushes in, then a moment where Ellen gathers herself for the next push, then two more pushes.  Predictable.  Unrelenting. Pushing little whimpers out of Dean’s mouth.

Dean comes when she feels that big plum-sized head nudge up against the spot above her clit, the one where Jo can sometimes get her fingertips. She’s been looking over her own shoulder, watching Ellen’s face, seeing her breasts bounce with each gentle thrust. And then Ellen’s touching that place.  Inside.  And not just occasionally brushing it, but rhythmically tapping it with her thick, blunt dickhead.  Dean feels herself clench down, her toes curling, waves of sensation curling from her core.  She lets her head drop, hanging between her shoulders. 

“Dee?”

“It’s.  Don’t stop.  So good.  Gonna…”  Dean has to fit her panted words in between Ellen’s thrusts. She’s looking down the length of her body, to where she can see the bulk of Ellen’s obscene cock between her thighs.  Her legs are shaking, she notices distantly, and her nipples have puckered into hard brown points.  Fuck, it feels like she’s got every inch inside, but she can see how much more there is to go.  

Ellen eases her down gently, lets her shiver out her climax pressed into the mattress.  The first thing Dean becomes aware of when she emerges from a cloud of pleasure? Ellen’s heavy breasts, warm against her back.  The second?  Ellen’s hips, still moving.

“You don’t let the boys in like this, do you?” Ellen murmurs. Dean’s so dazzled, it takes her a moment to realize what she means: bare.  Other than a thick coating of lube, there’s nothing between Ellen’s heavy dick and Dean’s slick cunt.

“Nnn…” Dean manages to squeak out, feeling another inch of that magnificent cock slip past her pussylips.  She’s intensely aware of them, of that mouth stretching wider than she’s ever had to before.  None of the boys had ever managed to fuck her through an orgasm. She is not in any mindset for a safe sex talk from Ellen, not now.  Besides, it’s true: she’d always insisted on protection. (Except for one time with Steve.  That hadn’t been intentional, though; there had been a very observant gas station attendant that afternoon, so no chance for shoplifting. Steve probably would have been content to curl up in the backseat, suckling and whisper filthy things about her little nipples. But Dean, incandescent with want, had already suspected Daddy was planning to move again, which always made her reckless). 

Dean’s never been interested in babies.  Raising Sammy was just plenty, thanks very much.  However, she is suddenly curious about what Ellen must have looked like, pregnant with Jo.    She reaches back blindly, hook her fingers into a strap. Ellen likes them cinched _tight_.  She wears the harness like a second skin.  She’s not  big woman, but when she’d appeared at the top of the stairs, she’d looked like she might burst out of the black leather.  Dean slaps a palm against Ellen’s ass.  “More.”

Fu-uck.  What they say about child-bearing hips is no joke: Dean can feel it when Ellen gets serious.  The thrusts get longer, still dragging along Dean’s insides.  Pressed into the mattress, Dean wiggles, but she’s got nowhere to go: she has to open.  And she does. 

Ellen’s cock is so thick each thrust actually moves Dean across Jo’s pastel sheets, a delicious push-pull that sets off electric sparkles in Dean’s fingers and toes.  At some point, Ellen hitches one of Dean’s legs back over her hip; a split second of resistance and suddenly she can slide in even deeper than before.  Dean feels boneless, just draped over Ellen, wrapped around her.  She slides her own hand down her body—the tight nipples, Ellen’s hand pressed between them, holding her torso while her broad hips control Dean’s lower half.  Her cuntlips are stretched like a rubber band and Dean feels full, so fucking full. 

“El-len, El-”  Dean stutters as Ellen shifts into a series of short pulses.  She’s so deep inside, it makes Dean’s hips bounce.  Too deep.  Too full.  Dean tries to move, but her limbs don’t obey her anymore.  She tries to speak, to warn Ellen, but the only sound she can make are grunts timed with the flex of Ellen’s hips

Steve had pulled up porn videos on his phone, women with inflated breasts squirting like fountains.  “Gonna make you do that,” he’d promised.  But he didn’t—Ellen did.  Until it happened, Dean hadn’t really believed it was possible.  (And she believes in monsters, so that’s saying something).  Ellen’s rolling her hips, grinding her way deeper, when she snatches Dean’s hand and pulls it away from where she’s toying her own nipples. Down her sweat-slicked body, toward her sprawled thighs.  Dean whines—she’s so full, if Ellen makes her touch her throbbing clit…  But Ellen stops short, simply pressing Dean’s hand under her own calloused palm.  And—oh. Oh, fuck.  _Fuck_.  Ellen is so big Dean can feel the cock moving in her low belly, faster and faster as Ellen’s fingers strum her throbbing clit

Dean bursts.    She’s spurting and clenching with Ellen so hard and so deep that she knows she’ll feel it like a bruise for days.  At some point, she’s so open and so wet that Ellen gets half of the dildo’s knotted base into her, a new stretch that prompts another wailing, flailing orgasm.  Dean wonders if Sammy and Ash can hear her from the back paddock, imagines them chasing her banshee screams, finding he up here in Jo’s bed, half-under Jo’s mother, impaled.  

Finally, she becomes aware of Ellen’s arms, wrapped tightly, cradling her, soothing her.   “Shh, shh—just lemme hold you, Dee,” Ellen is whispering, one thigh thrown over Dean’s hips.  Dean is throbbing inside—damn, Ellen is so deep, so thick.   Suddenly it is too much.  Dean can feel her cunt pushing against the cock, every exquisitely stretched muscle in her hips and thighs and belly contracting.  Dean hears Ellen’s breathing speed up, remembers the big knob on her side of the dildo.  Now that her orgasms have passed, Dean’s starting to feel sore, but she tightens anyway, increasing the resistance, giving Ellen something to rock against.  The big calloused hands that had been gripping Dean’s waist, holding her still, sweeps up to thumb Dean’s nipples.  Dean’s always lusted after Jo’s round, sensitive breasts because they were so soft and girly, but now she’s pleased with her size: Ellen can massage her whole little tit with one hand. Ellen cums quietly, panting against Dean’s shoulder. She nuzzles a kiss against Dean’s throat.

“It’s ok, Dee,” whispers Ellen, “let me go.” 

That’s when Dean realizes she’s still clenched down on Ellen’s dick.  She eases up reluctantly and lets the silicon slide out inch by inch. Ellen tugs Jo’s blanket over them both.  In a minute, Dean knows, Ellen will slip down to the bathroom, returning with warm washcloths. It won’t be the way it was with the boys, where Dean had to direct every move.  It won’t even be like reassuring Jo.  Ellen has promised to take charge.  Ellen will clean her and tuck her in and wake her again when it is time to eat lunch with Ash and Sammy.  Then Ellen will assign them each their tasks for the afternoon.  And when it is night, Ellen will come to her again.


End file.
